SCENES FROM EVERY-DAY PRACTICE.

“History, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this.”—Cowper’s Task. “Let no one say that his task is o’er, That bonds of earth are for him no more, Until by some kind or holy deed His name from forgetfulness is freed; Until by words from his lips or pen, Dying, he’s ‘missed’ from the ranks of men.” Alice Lee.

Ill-clad poverty, benumbed with cold, was abroad alone, exposed to that winter’s night, as the white snow fleeced the frost-hardened ground. But never mind earth’s cold bosom. The rich man’s heart warms him, making him merry, however blows the wind or rages the storm. Shiver, shiver on, beggar poor! Starvation and sense-dulling cold alone belong to you.

Through the crunching snow-drifts trudged a weary boy, with alms-basket on his shivering arm. From his figure, he seemed not over ten years old; but his face was so wan and melancholy, that it was difficult to tell how many year-blights the beggar child had experienced. Summer clothes were still clinging to him; a tattered comforter was the only winter article he wore.

CHARITY THROWN AWAY.

A gay carriage rolled noiselessly by, with a beautiful girl within, well wrapped in fur and cloak, whilst the snow was dashed from the rapid wheels like white dust. She saw, through the dim light, the weary, thin-clad boy, as he stopped, with face bent aside to the flake-burdened blast, to gaze at the smoking horses, as they plunged through the fast-deepening sheet. She dropped the sash, and threw the boy a coin. It sank from her warm hand deep into the drifted snow. It might have brought him bread and a cheering fagot, but the smitten child never found it. The snow closed over the coveted prize, while the blast grew keener.

On, on toiled the beggar boy, through drift and darkness, more weary as night gathered on. Thus is it ever with the humble poor; their load grows heavier as life lessens. No light or warming hearth is there—things that make house a home—to welcome the wandering boy.

The clock had just struck two as I was summoned to the house of Mrs. T. The same carriage that, in the evening, had borne the beautiful young girl, awaited at my door, with its impatient horses snorting against the frosted air. A few minutes later I entered the house. Mrs. T. met me in the hall, with her face deadly pale, and manner much excited. Her singular nervousness had before struck me on my visits, whenever her daughter ailed. She informed me that her “darling Emily” was very ill with a high fever.

We entered the chamber. The young girl lay with her head turned aside upon the pillow, her golden-brown hair scattered in wild profusion upon its white cover, while the nurse was gently moistening the fevered palm of her outstretched hand. The pulse was beating wildly at the wrist and temples, and fever heat glowed from her lustrous eyes. Whilst the nurse held the light to her face, the traces of dried tears were revealed upon her suffused cheeks.

“Heartache surely is here,” I said to myself.

There was something in the whole appearance of my patient that excited my curiosity and surprise. Only eight or ten hours had passed since she, from her carriage, had thrown the snow-claimed alms to the beggar boy, and now a high fever was running hot through every artery of her body.

Silently seated by the bedside, after administering a cooling draught I awaited and watched for the changes that might ensue. Her mother sat near the fire, its blaze lighting up every feature of her once beautiful face, which still remained very pale. In all my intercourse with Mrs. T., I never before had so prolonged an opportunity of examining in detail the expression of her countenance. The longer I gazed on her, the more satisfied I became that she had not passed through life without a fearful history.

It was this sensation which struck me when I first became acquainted with her. A few vague rumors had floated about relative to her history; that a strange desertion of her husband had taken place, and that he afterwards was found drowned in the river, near his residence, and that by his death Mrs. T. had become possessed of an immense estate. These stories had, however, soon subsided; and as her means were ample, and her charities liberal, the gossips of the town quietly dropped the past, and speculated upon the future, as should all respectable gossips.

The voice of the patient diverted my thoughts; a few words were murmured, and then the lips pressed tremblingly together, and the tear-drops again started to her cheeks. Suddenly springing up in bed, and threading her long, curling hair through her slender fingers, she exclaimed, in a thrilling, delirious tone,—

“It cannot be true! O, mother—tell me, mother!”

Mrs. T. fairly leaped to the bedside, and placing her hand over the daughter’s mouth, with affrighted gestures, she exclaimed,—

“What is it? What does she mean? My God, doctor, she raves!”

The girl fell back on her pillow; the mother stood, pale and trembling, by the bedside, with a nameless terror depicted on every feature. Turning to me, in a quick, restless voice, she bade me hasten to give her child a quieting draught.

“O, anything that will keep her from raving!”

The room was not over warm for such a bitter night, yet the perspiration stood upon the brow of the excited mother like the fallen dew.

“Conscience must lie here,” I thought to myself.

In the course of an hour the sufferer slumbered heavily; her breathing was hurried and oppressed, the fever had increased, and her moanings were constant.

Day was breaking, as I left my young patient to return home through the falling snow. As I looked out of the carriage window, I saw a little boy sitting on the cold walk. It was the poor beggar boy of yesterday, as thinly clad, with his pale cheek as white as the snowdrifts through which he had toiled. I ordered the coachman to stop.

THE BEGGAR BOY.

“What brought you out, and where are you going, on this cold winter morning, my poor boy?” I exclaimed.He raised his beautiful dark eyes to my face, and my heart grieved at their look of utter hopelessness, as he faintly answered, “To beg for me and old grandma.”

“Are you not very cold, in those thin clothes?” I asked.

His little teeth chattered, as he replied, “O, I am very—cold—sir.”

The impatient horses plunged violently in the traces, and the coachman asked to be allowed to drive on. I gave the poor boy the few silver coins that were in my pocket, and we passed on.

I never saw that boy but once again; his look haunts me to this day.

As I rode on, memory was busy tracing where I had ever seen features like his. The dark hair, that lay in uncombed curls upon his forehead, and clustered warmly about his neck, as though in protection against the bitter cold; his large, black eyes, with their long lashes; the finely-chiselled outlines of his mouth and nose,—these all impressed me that I had somewhere seen a face which strikingly resembled his. Poor boy! beauty was his only possession.

At breakfast a letter was handed me, summoning me immediately to one of my own children, who lay sick in a distant town. Before leaving I wrote a hurried note to Mrs. T., stating the cause of my sudden departure, desiring her to call another physician, during my absence. The young girl’s fate and the poor beggar boy’s face were almost forgotten in my own cares.

On the sixth day following, I again found myself at home. My first thought was for poor Emily. I dreaded to ask; there was something whispering to my heart that all was not well.

My suspense was not long; a messenger had just left, stating that the dear girl was fast failing; that her physician had pronounced her laboring under typhus fever. My God, how my heart sank under these words! I had dreaded this mistake after I left. Alas! how many have fallen by the name of a disease, and not by the disease itself!

After a hurried meal, I drove rapidly to Mr. T.’s residence. The house door was quietly opened by a servant, and in another minute I stood in the chamber of the invalid. The mantel was crowded with numerous vials. The close atmosphere of the sick-room was sickening. By the bedside, with her face bowed over one of the pale hands of the daughter, which she held in both of her own, sat the wretched mother. It seemed to me as though ten years had passed over her faded and care-worn countenance, since I last gazed upon it. I could not stir; my heart stood still. Her hair had become entirely gray.

REMORSE.

I gained heart to approach; the desolate mother heard me, and turning quickly she sprang from her chair, and placing her hands on my shoulders, she bowed her head: she sobbed wildly, as though her heart would break.

“Look, look, doctor! Would you have known her? O, my God, she is leaving me! Save her—O, save her!” and the wretched mother fell fainting to the floor. We gently raised and bore her to her own chamber. In a few moments I returned to Emily. She turned her head languidly towards me, while her right hand moved as if to take mine. How dry was the palm! Her color had faded away; the once rounded cheeks were sunken. O, I will not describe her!

The physician who had been called, after my departure, had found her with high fever and delirium. He mistook the excitement of the brain for its inflammation. O, fatal error! A consultation was called. The second comer was notedly a man who viewed every excitement as caused by “an over-action of the vessels,” and bleeding was its only relief. The nervous system he entirely ignored. From his theory, man was a mere combination of blood, blood-vessels, and biliary secretions, more or less deranged. Calomel, salts, and the lancet were his Hercules. The grand causa mortis amongst the human family was “serosity.” Hence some evil-minded wag amongst his brethren had named him “Old Serosity.”

The poor child had been bled, cupped, and purged, in order to subdue this “over-action of the blood-vessels.” Verily it may cure the vessels, but it certainly kills the patient.

The life current was nigh exhausted; there was no blood left for renewal of brain, nerve, or vital tissue. My heart was bitter against this murderous adherence to a false principle. Here a human life, that of a young and spotless girl, was the forfeit.

But to return to the thread of the narrative.

“O, I am glad you have come back to me. Do try to save me, doctor,” she said, with great effort. Sending the nurse from the room, I quickly pressed the young girl’s hand within my own, and said to her,—

“Do you really wish to live, Emily?”

“Yes, yes,” she murmured; “I am very young to die.”

“Then, my dear, tell me truly what has so terribly shocked your nervous system; tell me.” With a strength that startled me, she searched under the mattress side, and drew forth a small note, which she silently placed in my hand. It was discolored by time. I opened it; the date was above twelve years back. It ran thus:—

“When you receive this, Mira (Mrs. T.’s given name), my career will have ended. By my death you will inherit all. Let my unborn child have its just, legal claim. Your child, Emily, take to your home as though she were an adopted orphan. Let not her youth be blighted by the knowledge of her unblest birth. I forgive you. Adieu, forever. H. T.”

“O my God, the doomed child is illegitimate,” I said. I stooped down and kissed the sufferer’s forehead, and promised that I would be a father to her. “Come, cheer up,” I whispered, “for your mother’s sake. If she has sinned she has suffered much for your sake; forgive her.”

“I do forgive her,” she whispered, “but can I forget myself, unblessed as I am? But I must know the whole truth. O, where is the right heir of all this wealth? My memory returns now, indistinctly, to my earlier days. A cloud intervenes. I remember but a small cottage, in a deep wood, where mother often came to see me, and a tall woman took care of me. Then came a gay carriage, and took me to a large house; but I never again returned to the cottage in the wood. There, at the large house, mother left me a long time; and when she came back—O, doctor, I can speak no longer. Do give me something to strengthen me, and I will try yet to live.”

A cordial was administered by my own hands, and in a short time sleep overcame her. Night again closed in; the wind had sunk to rest with the setting sun. Another night of bitter cold was ushered in. Woe to the poor! Woe to the hungry and the fireless.

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As I entered the mother’s apartments I found her sitting by a private secretary, which had been brought from the library. Its lid was open, and as I seated myself she took from a package of tied letters a sealed paper, and placing it in my hands, said,—

“Read this at your leisure, doctor. My pilgrimage of life is nigh ended. You will judge how great my sin, and how severe has been my punishment. I ask no forgiveness, for there will be none left to forgive me.”

Well, I knew her heart was nigh crushed!

I sought the daughter’s chamber. How still was everything! The very candle, with its long flame, parted by the thickened wick-char, seemed not to flicker, as it burned dimly on. I looked at the bed; the sweet girl lay with both hands crossed upon her bosom, as though in prayer. An orange-blossom had dropped from her grasp, and lay neglected by her side; her life-hand never touched it more! Death had claimed his bride!

A wild shriek sounded through the house. The erring mother now knew that she was alone in the great world.

Whilst the shrouding of the dead took place I retired and opened the sealed package. It briefly told its tale of sin and sorrow.

It told how from the first love Emily was the fruit, and how, unknown to all, the child had been secreted; how, about three years after Emily’s birth, the mother was married to Harold T., whom she never loved; and how, by a singular accident, the knowledge of her transgression became known to her husband; that, after violently cursing her for her sin and deception, he left her, and shortly afterwards committed suicide; that the letter (written by him just before his death), which was so fatal to the peace and life of Emily, had accidentally dropped from the secretary, and was picked up by her (that night after her return in the carriage), unknown to the mother until the sixth day after my return, when she missed it.

The narrative went on to state that a male child was born after T.’s death, and that, seized with an insane fury, she resolved that he never should inherit its father’s name and wealth; and that, through the assistance of a nurse, it was placed with a sum of money at a beggar’s door, and a dead child laid beside the mother instead; that before sending the infant away, the nurse tattooed its father’s initials on its left arm. The beggar had died, and all traces of the child had been lost. At length her guilty conscience so reproached her that the mother had instituted search for the child, but all in vain.

As I read this tale of crime and repentance, busy memory traced out the features of the beggar boy! Like a sudden light it burst upon me—those features that had so tormented my memory to recall were those of the unhappy mother.

Quickly I went to her room. She was not there. I hastened to Emily’s. The mother was wildly clasping the enshrouded form of her daughter, and weeping as though her heart would break asunder. Gently removing her to her own chamber, I intimated that another child, long lost, might yet be restored to her.

She listened as one bewildered. I then informed her of my adventure with the beggar boy.

It was hardly day-dawn as I entered the carriage. My breath froze against the window panes. After a short ride the horses stopped before the wretched snow-covered hovel (where he had seen the beggar child once enter). I opened the carriage door, leaped out, and placed my hand on the latch. The door opened. It was neither bolted nor locked; for no thief would enter there. In the corner of the room lay a bundle of rugs, with some straw, but it was unoccupied. Near the fireplace, where nought but a little well-charred bark remained upon the cold ashes, half reclining in a large wooden chair, lay the beggar boy.

THE LOST HEIR.

His cap had fallen on the ground, and his dark, curling hair fell clustering over his extended arm, as his head rested upon it. He had seemingly fallen asleep the night before, for his thin summer clothes were on his person, and his basket, yet filled with the fragments of broken feasts, remained untouched at his feet. I placed my hand upon his beautiful head; it was icy cold. Quickly brushing back the fallen ringlets from his face, the unmistakable evidence of death met my gaze.

He had apparently fallen asleep weeping, for a tear-drop lay frozen between the long lashes that fringed the eyelids.

I raised the stiffened body of the ill-fated youth, and tearing away the thin sleeve from his left arm, I distinctly discovered the letters ‘H. T.’ thereon.

Deserted, famished, and frozen, death had claimed the darling, lone boy before he knew a mother’s love!

This sad tale is taken from “Scenes in Northern Practice by Dr. Dewees, N. Y.”—Scalpel, 1855. (And like all the stories herein, it has the merit of being true to the letter.)

The Terrible Caller.

It was about half past nine in the morning.

My office door suddenly opened, and looking up from my writing, I saw, standing in the passage-way, a very tall man, in a long white frock, reaching to his knees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a slouched hat set back on his head, his face painted or bedaubed with some white substance, and his eyes gleaming upon me most intensely!

There he stood, looking almost fiercely upon me, while he held the door-knob with his left hand, and grasped with his right a long carving-knife, which was thrust through his belt.

“Are you the doctor?” he shouted with excitement.

“I am the doctor,” I replied, calmly awaiting my fate.

He instantly stepped inside the room, when close behind him was revealed the form of a very short man, who held a Kossuth hat in one hand, while with a handkerchief in the other, he stanched the blood that had evidently been flowing pretty freely from his head.

“This man has cut himself very bad on the head; big iron wheel come down on him: can you fix him up?” asked the first. This accounted for his excited manner. But how about the bedaubed face and the huge knife?

A MORNING CALLER.

I examined the wound, only through the scalp, less than three inches in length; and washing away the surplus clotted blood, I clipped off the hair, and soon secured the edges of the gaping wound by taking a stitch or two through the scalp.

While so doing, the young man rolled his eyes up to his tall companion,—who had explained that they were cooks at Young’s Hotel, and that the spit wheel and shaft used for turning meat had fallen eight feet; by which the assistant had barely escaped being killed,—and with a commendable show of thought for his employer’s interest, rather than his own comfort or safety, he anxiously exclaimed,—

“Jim, do you think that gentleman’s ‘order,’ what I had in the spit, is overdone yet?”

An Irish Scene.

A young Irish girl, with a wild shriek, an “Och, hone!” and “Ah, murther!” and “Hulla-boo—a—hulla-boo, poor Terry! Ah, why did I taze ye?” burst into my office one evening, upsetting the servant, and actually laying hold on me with her hands, as she exclaimed,—

“Ah, docther, docther, come now, for the love o’ the moother that bore ye; come this blessed minute. I’ve killed poor Terry, an’ niver shall see him again. Ah, murther, murther! Why did I taze ye?”

“WHY DID I TAZE YE?”

Trying in vain to calm her, I hastily drew on my boots, and almost ran after her to a wretched tenement, some quarter of a mile off, and found the object of the girl’s solicitude alive and kicking, with his lungs in the best of order, standing on the stairs that led to his miserable chamber, with a broken scissors in his hand, stirring busily the contents of a tea-cup.

It seems that he had been courting my fair guide, and after the period she had fixed for her final answer to his declaration, she had bantered him with a refusal, which her solicitude for his life plainly showed was far enough from her real intentions.

In his despair he had swallowed an ounce of laudanum, which he had procured from some injudicious druggist, which act had sent Biddy off after me in such terror. He was now mixing a powder which he had obtained from another druggist, who, knowing of his love affair, it will be seen acted with more wisdom than the first, as Terry let slip enough in his hearing to show what he wanted to do with the “ratsbane” for which he inquired; and Biddy, like a true daughter of Eve, had made no secret in the neighborhood that she valued her charms beyond the poor fellow’s bid.

As soon as she approached, he, by some inopportune remark, re-excited her wrath, and she again declared she wouldn’t have him, “if he wint to the divil.”

Poor Terry, in his red shirt and blue stockings, and an attitude of the grandest kind, but covering, as we soon found, a desperate purpose, flourished his tea-cup, and stirred its contents with the scissors, constantly exclaiming,—

“Ah, Biddy, will ye have me? Ye’ll have me now—will ye not?”

Still Biddy refused.

“Divil a bit will I let the docther come near me till ye say yis! Sure, weren’t we children together in the ould counthry? and didn’t we take our potaties and butthermilk out o’ the same bowl? And yer mother, that’s now dead, always said ye were to be me wife; and now ye’re kapin’ coompany with that dirty blackguard, Jim O’Connor,—divil take him for a spalpeen. Ah, Biddy, will ye have me?”

And he flourished the cup, and stirred away vigorously with the scissors.

Biddy’s blood was up at the disrespectful mention made of Jimmy’s name, for “he had a winnin’ way wid him,” and she shouted at the top of her voice,—

“No, be the St. Patrick, I’ll niver have ye.”

With an awful gulp, Terry drained the cup, rolled up his eyes, and with one most impassioned yet ludicrous look at her, he fell upon his knees on the step.

Biddy followed, in strong hysterics.

The whole affair was so irresistibly ludicrous that I scarce could keep from laughing; but on observing the bottle, labelled “laudanum,” and looking into the bottom of the tea-cup, and discovering a white powder, I changed my prognosis, and hastened to the druggist’s near, to see what it was, and procure an antidote, should it really prove “ratsbane.”

To my great relief, the man of drugs informed me, laughingly, that he had given Terry a quantity of chalk and eight grains of tartar emetic, as he learned that Terry was already in possession of the ounce of laudanum, and all the neighbors knew that Biddy had driven him to desperation by flirting with his rival, Jim O’Connor. The young man had judiciously told Terry that the powder would make the laudanum sure to operate more effectually.

“How long will it take?” he asked, and bagged all for use when the refusal should come.

My course was now clear. I was in for sport. Sending the druggist’s clerk for my stomach-pump, to be in readiness in case the emetic should not operate,—which was scarcely impossible, for eight grains of tartar emetic, taken at a dose, would almost vomit the potatoes out of a bag,—I waited the result.As for Biddy, I let her lie; for I thought she deserved her punishment. My heart was always tender towards the sex, and I generally expected a “fellow-feeling.”

SUCCESS OF TERRY’S COURTSHIP.

In a short time it became evident that Terry’s stomach was not so tough as his will, and he began to intermingle long and portentous sighs with his prayers, and to perspire freely. I gave him a wide berth, in anticipation of the Jonah that was to come up shortly. I was anxious now that Biddy should revive in time to witness his grand effort. Terry was tough, and held out. Shortly she revived, and suddenly starting up, and recollecting the situation, she made one bound for Terry, crying,—

“Ah, Terry, Terry, dear Terry! I’ll have ye now. Yis, I will; and I don’t care who hears me. I always loved ye, but that divil’s baby, Mag, always kept tellin’ me ye’d love me the betther if I didn’t give in to ye too soon. Ah, Terry, dear, only live, and I’ll go to the ends of the world for ye. Ah, an’ what would me poor mother say, if she was here? Och, hone! Och, hone! Docther, now what are ye doin’? A purty docther ye are; an’ ye pumped out yer own counthryman, that didn’t die, sure, an’ he tuk twice as much as poor Terry.”

Meantime the boy had arrived with the pump.

“Up wid ye now, and use the black pipe ye put down the poor fellow’s throat over the way last summer. I’d take it mesilf, if it would do; but God knows whether I’d be worth the throuble.”

As Terry had not yet cast up his accounts, and the stomach-pump was at hand, I determined to make a little more capital out of the case, and thrusting the long, flexible India rubber tube down poor Terry’s throat, having separated his teeth by means of a stick, and holding his head between my knees, I soon had the satisfaction of depositing the laudanum and tartar emetic in a swill pail, the only article of the toilet the place afforded.

After years proved Terry and Biddy most loving companions. He never, even when drunk, more than threatened her “wid a batin’, which she was desarvin’,” and she never forgave “that divil’s baby, Mag,” for her cruel experiment on her heroic and devoted Terry.—Practice of a New York Surgeon.

A Life Scene.

The Situation.—I was young, but, with a wife and child dependent upon my practice for food, raiment, and shelter, I was striving manfully; with my household gods and goods I had located here, in a small village, a year before. My beginning was encouraging, my success in practice more than flattering. But an immense opposition had met and nearly overthrown me, in the form of a man, a deacon of the —— church. He was one of those “rule or ruin” men whom you will find in every one-horse village. I did not at first know my man,—he did not know me,—or I should have avoided his ill will. I did not know his tenaciousness of titles—he was an esquire also—which was my first unpardonable offence. He swore—“as deacons do”—that I should not practise in that town. I swore, as doctors will, that “so long as I could obtain a potato and a clam a day I would remain while he was my opposer.” Clams could be dug at low water, within a few rods of my house; potatoes I grew on the quarter acre of ground given me as partial inducement to settle in that town. His two drunken sons were his emissaries of evil, set on for my overthrow, in addition to the father’s voice and known opposition, which few dared to meet. My practice dwindled. A few Nicodemuses came by night, but my darling wife trembled for my very life when I had a night call. My provision was often short, my poor horse was mere skin and bones, standing, day after day, gnawing his empty manger.

“O, is there a God in Israel?” I cried, in my anguish, more than once.

Yes, the reply came to my prayers; there is a God of recompense.

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The Betrayed.—My patient was a young girl, over whose golden head but seventeen summers had flown, on rosy wings. Her form was sylph-like, and face as beautiful as the opening flower in the golden sunshine of early day. She was an attendant at his church, a member of his Sabbath school class, and a singer in the choir....

THE BETRAYED.

I was shown to her room. Sorrow, and not disease, had left its impress upon her fair young face. Rumor had already given me a hint on which to diagnose my case.

“Who has done this wicked thing?” I asked, holding her hand, and looking kindly into her eyes.

“O, my God! O, I must not tell,” she cried, springing up from her couch. I never shall forget the terror depicted on that fair young countenance, as she pronounced these words.“You must tell. You should not suffer this shame and burden alone. Tell me truly. Who has done it? I must know. There may be a chance to cover the shame and make your babe legitimate. Come,” I said.

“O, sir, dear doctor, it can never be;” and she fell back on her pillow, weeping and wringing her hands in awful anguish.

“Come, it shall be done;” and I firmly held to the point.

She arose. I gave her a bowl and napkin that were near; she bathed her inflamed and swollen eyes, then, with surprising calmness and fortitude, took a pencil and a bit of paper from the light-stand at her bedside, and wrote a name.

She then handed it to me, saying “’Tis he.” I read the name. I jumped to my feet. I forgot my tender patient. I forgot all but my own sufferings, and those of my dear little wife and darling babe, and their enemy, as I cried out,—

“O, my God in Israel! I have got him! I shall be avenged!”

“O, don’t, doctor! What is the matter?” exclaimed the affrighted girl, rising in bed. I had rushed, almost frantically across the room and back. “Forgive me,” I said, “I—I forgot myself. Pardon me.”

“O, sir, I thought you were mad.”

“I was, dear girl. It is past. Now to your case.” And I proceeded to unfold to her unsophisticated mind the true state of affairs. Here was a pure, respectable, though poor young girl, under age, who had been betrayed, locked into an office, and seduced by a son of the squire, and deserted, threatened—left to bear the burden and disgrace alone. She dared not divulge the name of her destroyer, because of the position of his family in the community. I dared. But to bring her mind up above her fears, to compel the young man to make restitution, as far as lay in his power, was a severe task. It was my duty to do this; sweeter then than duty, it was my revenge! By implicating the real villain, I released several other young men from suspicion, particularly one young man with red hair.

The girl was taken away from the sight of dear sister’s sinister looks, and the influence and threats of the seducer, and secret offers of bribery of the deacon, his father.

The law took its course. No eye could see the hand that worked the machinery. The time was counted almost to a day, as the result proved. The young man was arrested, and gave bonds. It became the theme of general conversation. I was interviewed. I was dumb—deaf—blind! Threats and bribes proved equally ineffectual to induce me to give an opinion, or a pledge not to appear in the coming trial at the next term of the Superior Court. To marry the poor, unfortunate girl was beneath the dignity of the seducer and family. They would pay their last farthing first, or the young man would sooner go to prison for the crime. His two sisters carried their heads higher than ever. The two sons threatened my life. But I kept on the even tenor of my way. The girl became a mother.

“Next Tuesday court sits,” whispered everybody, and nothing in town was discussed but the probabilities of the pending lawsuit.

The lawsuit was nothing, the fine was nothing, which the justice might impose; even imprisonment was nothing in comparison to acknowledgment of an illegitimate child by the deacon’s family, notwithstanding the child was not red-haired, but much resembled its reputed father, the deacon’s son.

There was no trial. The squire paid a sum of money to the idiotic old father of the beautiful young mother, and agreed, orally, to support the child, and the suit was withdrawn. But this virtually acknowledged the child, and the girl returned to her father’s roof for shelter, and a place wherein to weep alone over her so-called fatherless child, and hide her shame (?) from the uncharitable world.The town became too cramped for the squire and his beautiful family. He sold out, but not before he had lost his rule there, and was hanged in effigy as being “too Secesh.”

The seducer married a frail beauty, who mourns a drunken, brutish husband.

The other son became steady, and married a lovely girl—my first patient.

The daughters never wedded. Too proud to marry a poor man, too poor and destitute of real beauty or accomplishments for a wealthy or refined man to desire to wed them, they became servants and lackeys. If I desire a lunch at a certain saloon, one of them awaits my order. No matter about the other unfortunate, unloved girl. The father is an imbecile invalid. God is my witness, my judge, I long ago buried my hard feelings against them; they have only my commiseration.

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